


I Hope I Live a Long Life and Get to See My Sequel

by happytappyteen



Series: The Adventures of Alderson, Tarantino, and Etc. [2]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Biracial Character, Bisexual Male Character, Copious References to Logic and Joey Bada$$, Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Gay Male Character, Jewish Character, Lesbian Character, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Teaching, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happytappyteen/pseuds/happytappyteen
Summary: This is what it’s all about.





	1. What Do I Desire?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-explicit sexual activity and use of alcohol, as well as lyrical references to violence and murder.
> 
> Another huge thanks to all my friends who help me with my writing, I love you!

Not even a full week into 2018 and Bobby already has regrets. That’s not to say he’s already broken a resolution - fuck no. Leon wouldn’t let him buy a pack of cigs even if he wanted to and if the way he and Elliot are sprawled over him is any indication, he certainly didn’t fail to please them the night before. The thing is, he _really_ shouldn’t have access to social media when drunk, especially after midnight. He feels Leon dig his teeth into his shoulder from behind, presumably to stifle a laugh, as he watches in horror.

*

“It’s lit!” Bobby shouted into the camera, as though with multiple exclamation points. He took a shot - lost count which one - and dabbed several times to the bass-boosted trap rhythm making the floor tremble. The music suddenly stopped and he turned the invisible audience’s attention to Elliot, who stood motionless and wide-eyed as Bobby shouted “What the fuck!” into the camera. “What happened to the music, bruh?”

“I didn’t do anything to it.” Out of the three of them Elliot was doubtless the most sober.

The camera cut suddenly to another video, captioned _I love my boyfriend more than anything!!_ in big white letters at the top of the screen. He approached Leon’s lanky form from behind, swaying on his feet like a young tree, gripped his hips and began to grind on him, apparently focused appreciatively on Leon’s ass, because he wolf-whistled as Leon pressed back into the touch.

“Motherfucker gonna get it tonight!” he declared gleefully. “You gon’ get this dick, Leon, I’m finna put a baby in you!” He laughed and kissed Leon’s neck sloppily, turning his head to take another shot.

Another video, this time with a thumb, presumably Leon’s, half-obscuring the camera as Bobby tried to get Elliot to copy his dance moves...unsuccessfully. And then Leon fell on his ass and dropped Bobby’s phone and Bobby came running drunkenly. “I’ll save you!”

*

All in all, not the most dignified night of his life, and now he has a splitting headache to show for it. Bobby swears under his breath.

Leon chuckles, smiling against Bobby’s skin. “You know I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know you wasn’t lying…you did give me that dick.”

“Mhm. Was it good?”

“Yeah.” He turns around in Leon’s arms to face him, strokes his biceps and kisses him gently. “Always did like these arms of yours, babe.”

“Really? I like your ass. And your eyes. Especially your eyes.” Leon cups his face and looks at him. Bobby thinks he could look into Leon’s eyes forever and never get sick of it. And vice versa. Black and blue eyes, but not bruised.

Beautiful.

“You’re so beautiful.” Their lips melt together easily, soothing, or at least allowing them to forget the bubbling nauseous, stone cold sober pain in their skulls. Leon exhales against his mouth with a blissful sigh, feeling that soft gaze even behind closed eyelids. “Mm...I love you.”

Elliot stirs on the other side of the bed, hands tightening around Bobby’s waist. Bobby smiles, turning to kiss him as well. “And you too.”

Elliot makes a face somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Headache.”

“Yeah, El, I’m sure you’re familiar with hangover.”

“Unfortunately.”

Leon props himself up on one elbow and leans carefully over Bobby to kiss Elliot, gentle. In the process his long dreads reach Bobby’s cheeks and tickle him and he cracks a furtive half-smile.

“I’m sorry, cuz. Eating something will help, and that reminds me of something.”

“What?” Bobby sits up halfway.

Leon smiles at his eagerness. “Like, we been smoking up together, we been chilling at the crib, we been fucking, sort of unofficial dates...but we haven’t had a ‘real’ date yet. Going out and shit.” He uses air quotes for emphasis, and Elliot nods cautiously.

“We don’t have to -”

“I guess it depends where it is. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking maybe a karaoke bar. I know a real relaxed one not too far from here - less crowded than most, and did I mention they have the rap legends of our time available? Tupac, Biggie, Kendrick Lamar, Childish Gambino, Logic, Joey Bada$$?” He smirks, indicating the _B4.DA.$$_ tattoo on his right forearm. “Big fan. El, you don’t have to participate, I just need us to eat something and I don’t think none of us have the energy to cook.”

Funny how much a Tylenol and a warm shower with your boyfriends before going out to eat can turn around a shit morning.

*

Leon sits between Bobby and Elliot on the subway clutching their hands tightly, ready to give a returning death glare or a middle finger to anyone casting them dirty looks. Fortunately, no one dares to.

Even more fortunately, the bar is relaxed, like Leon said. He splits an order of lemon pepper wings with Bobby and even Elliot, who’s ordered his usual chicken tenders and fries, takes a tentative bite as Bobby goes up to pick the song, his white sneakers glowing purple in the blacklight. He comes back with an ear-to-ear grin. “So y’all probably wondered why I was so eager to go out and spit some bars.”

“Nah,” Leon drawls, and Bobby slaps him playfully.

“Well, I’m finna tell you anyway. I got big news.”

He waits in heavy silence just to piss them off.

“...What the fuck is it, dude?”

“I...am...finished with my teacher’s certification. I’m gonna be teaching chorus at the high school. Fully integrated gender-wise, fully trans-friendly. I’ll be sure of it.”

Leon whoops and pulls him into a tight hug. “Bitch, that’s fantastic! And hey -” he lowers his voice drastically. “We celebrating tonight, good?”

“Of course. I don’t start ‘til next week, so you can keep me up all you want until then. Get it out of ya system.” He laughs into Leon’s shoulder and squeezes him once more before pulling back and turning around to watch the stage.

Most of the takers are mediocre if not terrible, but hey, they’ve got guts. Leon smiles as Bobby is called up.

There’s a brief wistfulness there in his expression. “This is for my big brother Zeke. Rest in peace and power, my dude.”

He turns his hat backward and grips the mic in his hand and sways to the familiar intro - the haunting background vocals in B flat minor, and an old-school beat after eight measures. He almost glows in the spotlight, completely in his element, storming across the stage with the confidence of accompanying thunder as he spits rapid-fire like lightning.

“Uh, yeah/Living life like this/Gotta paint a picture when I write like this/Tales from my hood not a sight like this/Where they up to no good on a night like this/And they murder motherfuckers just ‘cause/Type of shit I seen you prob’ly wonder where I was/I was in the crib just sitting on the rug/Base heads comin’ through lookin’ for the plug, now…”

(He closes his eyes, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Just him and the music.)

“Born and raised in my area/Beautiful by day by night it’s hysteria/Fuck around and bury ya tonight/Ridin’ with my homies on sight/Mama tell me to come in at night/Now I really gotta go/But they never know/Livin’ life to the fullest I gotta blow/Po-po finna bust in the do’/We got blow in the crib/In the kitchen over there next to the baby with the bib…

(Leon always did like the way he said “damn”.)

“God _damn_ what it feel like/Middle of the night/Wakin’ up scared for my life/Never had the heat just a knife/When the gat go blat like that/Guarantee you it’s a wrap/Finna put you on ya back like that…

(He feels his free hand flap of its own accord as “like that” echoes throughout the place.)

“Just breathe/While they mama grieve/Bullet to the dome like an Aleve/Gotta leave for the premises/To murder my nemesis…

(That motherfucker.)

“No, no, uh, uh/Just stop, stop, stop/’fore they even call the cops/Do it for the money and the bitches and the drugs and the props/Tell me why another body even gotta drop/Get shot off top/For some shit that was gang related!”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and opens his eyes. He’d drowned out the cheering crowd but now it comes back full force between verses. He can see Leon across the room exaggeratedly mouthing _Keep going!_

And then he sees there’s a teenage girl just in front of the stage, watching him with huge dark eyes, forming every word silently. Dark eyes, dark skin, cornrows down her back, and a black wheelchair with a red seat cushion. He nods approvingly, holding her gaze briefly, and gestures. _Come on up._ “Yo, pause the track please!”

The music stops. Everything stops. All he can hear is his own heavy breathing and blood pounding in his ears as he kneels at the edge of the stage to talk to her.

“Come up and show me what you got?”

“Please.”

“Aight.” He nods. “There’s a ramp over there -” he points, indicating. “Can you make it okay by yourself, or do you want some help?”

The girl looks taken aback, like she’s never been asked that before. She pulls a thick braid over her shoulder, out of her face, and braces her hands on the wheels, preparing to turn. “I got it, thanks.”

“Take your time, kid - hey, can y’all make a path for her please? Thank you.”

She rolls up the ramp to the stage and Bobby waits patiently as she parks in front of him and locks the brakes, meeting his eyes with shining dark ones, like the night sky.

“You got a name, girl?” he asks, this time into the mic, and hands her the spare. She appears to have a very strong grip.

“Janelle Robinson.”

“Hold up. Your name Janelle, like Janelle Monáe?”

“That’s exactly it, sir.”

 _Sir._ Bobby smiles. “Sir! I like this one. How old are you, Janelle?”

“I’m seventeen years old, sir.”

“And you wanna rap with me today?”

“Isn’t that why you called me up?”

“Ha!” Bobby laughs, slapping his thigh. “You quick, Janelle - yes. Now all you gotta do is hold up the mic real close to your mouth - just like that - so the people can hear you. We gonna take it from…the second verse.”

Janelle nods. “I’m ready.”

“You heard the lady; play the music, please.”

And just like that, they’re back in the zone. A siren-red light descends on the stage and Janelle looks more determined than ever.

_Up first at five tonight, breaking news in Gaithersburg where a massive manhunt is underway after a deadly shooting. It's all unfolding in the 400 block of West Deer Park and 355. Our Montgomery County reporter joins us with the latest tonight._

And Bobby almost trips over his own feet when she opens her mouth. She doesn’t move an inch from where she sits parked, but her energy fills the entire room. It’s suffocating, and gives him new life to breathe.

“Living life like this/Hope little Bobby never fight like this/Stab a motherfucker with a knife like this/All about the money on a night like this/Run up in the crib, put a bullet in ya rib/Got a lot to give but I never had the chance/Never had the chance, yeah…

(God damn.)

“Stay strapped but I hate it when I take it out/If you want it I’ma lay it out/Hope my little brother make it out/Ev’ry night what I pray about, what I pray about, check it uh yeah/Got a son on the way/But I cling to the streets even though I wanna run away/I imagine a better life/Where I never had a debt in life/Hit you with the, in the dead of night...

(She’s like fire.)

“Sellin’ crack to my own pops/Pushin’ this weight on my own block/If I sell a brick, I can buy a house/If they find the key, they might lock me UP _/_ But I take the chance ‘cause I need that shit and don’t give a fuck/Take the chance ‘cause I need that shit and don’t give a fuck -”

(Actually, fuck fire. She’s emphasizing every goddamn swear word gleefully, and she’s spitting like it’s nothing. She’s the fucking Avatar.)

“Get down or lay down/Hit ya with the Beretta you better -”

“Holy shit, stop, stop!” Bobby holds up a hand, shaking his curly head incredulously. He bends down slightly, wipes a sweaty hand on his jeans, and looks her dead in the eye, crooking an eyebrow. She’s unperturbed, the only sign she burnt a single calorie her ragged breaths.

“You okay, Janelle?”

“Uh-huh,” she pants, wiping her brow with the back of a thin dark hand.

“Take your time, kid, breathe. It’s okay. You want some water?”

“Yes, please, sir.”

Out of nowhere a small water bottle lands on the stage near her. She gives him a look that says _I got it_ and twists the cap open, taking a grateful gulp. She seems to be breathing more normally now.

“Now,” he ventures, grinning. “Miss Janelle, I got a question.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You come up here to steal my thunder?”

The audience laughs, and Bobby swears he can feel a blush emanating from her. She’s nervous, but proud. Like him.

“Maybe,” she quips, one side of her mouth pulling up in a smile.

“Well! We’ll see about that. We finna try that outro again, yeah, see if you can outdo me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay -” He inhales.

“Get down or lay down/Hit ya with the Beretta you better stay down/Stray shots on the playground/Livin’ how I’m livin’ with the life that I’m given/Anybody that’s ridin’ with me I’m ridin’ with ‘em - God damn, girl!”

Janelle laughs breathlessly.

“Man, you quick! Tell you what - we try it one more time, as fast as you can...but this time...in one breath. And you obviously part of the RattPack, so if you don’t fuck it up, I’ma give you this hat. Got it at a concert.” She beams. “Now, I ain’t gonna have you pass out on me, you think you can do this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Janelle, I like your confidence.” He spreads his legs into a wider stance to get better balance and sees no trace of hesitation in her gaze. “Deep breath. Ready?”

“Get down or lay down/Hit ya with the Beretta you better stay down/Stray shots on the playground/Livin’ how I’m livin’ with the life that I’m given/Anybody that’s ridin’ with me I’m ridin’ with ‘em/Show me the enemy and I’ma hit ‘em/The second I bit ‘em I get ‘em/And hit ‘em with the venom/Ain’t no need to pretend I’ma never do it/I knew it already been through it/I do it for the street for the fam for the life anybody that’s gang related -”

She drops the mic with the bass and the instrumental cock of a gun as the song ends, pulling Bobby into a hug. She’s strong, and her smile lights up her whole face as he slides the bright blue and yellow hat onto her head.

This is what it’s all about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Incredible True Story by Logic.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmkkcAh08vw
> 
> The song used in the rap battle is Gang Related, which Logic often invites fans to perform with him at concerts. This particular video made me very, very happy as an autistic, physically disabled fan of his.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jy3Lu_Ak0Tw


	2. Abundant and Fundamental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply here, except perhaps copious fourth-wall-breaking jokes about my man Logic.

Bobby pulls out of the hug after a few seconds, pleasantly surprised. She’s got guts, and the gift of gab for sure. He walks her off the ramp back into her position just in front of the stage and hands her the water bottle again. “Stay hydrated, kiddo. It was fun spitting with you.”

“Same to you, sir!” She waves him off with a playful salute and takes out a pair of headphones, and that’s that.

_ Janelle Robinson, I hope I get to teach kids a lot like you. _

“That was amazing!” Leon exclaims, dapping Bobby up. “And hey,” he adds slyly, “I thought you were finna invite me up on stage and battle with the kid.”

Bobby laughs. “Bruh, I have like three of those hats. You can wear it whenever you want. Maybe next time, if there is one.”

“In that case, I hope there is one. You know I just like to show off.”

“For good reason,” Bobby quips, and Leon kisses him on the cheek as they pay the bill.

*

They get home and Bobby sets out his outfits for the first week as a teacher. Actual slacks and collared button-down shirts. If his coworkers aren’t impressed, at least he can count on his lovers. He doesn’t start until Monday, but hey, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared now and not forget later.

Elliot presses against Bobby’s chest and noses affectionately at his shoulder as he folds his socks. “You’re gonna be great.”

“Thanks, Elli.” He kisses the top of his head softly. “I hope so.”

“How is this gonna work? No open house or anything?”

“Nah, man. It’s the middle of the school year, they ain’t do those now. These kids been just having subs since their old teacher quit, see. Been given busy work. I’m sure they’re bored as fuck.” Bobby grins and cracks his knuckles. “But I, however, I’m gonna keep it fresh. I don’t fuck with basic - and don’t say I fuck basic; you ain’t basic, bruh.”

“I wear the same thing everyday.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with having a routine. I love you just the way you are.”

Elliot smiles hesitantly, as though unsure whether to argue or not. Ultimately he decides to let it lie. “Me too.”

“Don’t tell Leon yet, but I wanna bring him in at the end of the quarter when we learning  _ advanced _ syncopation.” He spreads his hands out in the arcing shape of a rainbow, bouncing eagerly. “We gon’ show off a bit, he loves that.”

“I’ll keep the surprise safe.”

*

The rest of the week passes quickly; on one hand, it’s a curse for the obvious reason of being away from his two favorite men in the whole world (not counting Mahershala Ali), but on the other hand, it’s a blessing. They spend every night up until Sunday getting things “out of their systems”, as Leon called it, and on Sunday night they leave Bobby to his own devices so he can prepare, with his bottle of Xanax on hand in case of an anxiety attack. Fortunately, it’s not needed.

On Monday morning, he wakes promptly at five and climbs out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Leon and Elliot, who are curled around each other, sleeping peacefully. He takes a quick shower, pulls on the slacks and dress shoes and buttons up his shirt, looking hesitantly in the mirror. Sometimes he sees a child with eyes too big for his face and a tiny scar on his eyebrow and an equal sign tattoo on his wrist.

Deep breaths.

In, out.

Just like rhyming.

_ Breakfast, meds, brush teeth, brush hair, gather my shit, I’m gone. _

_ Here we go. _

The route is already familiar to him; he goes through the motions while muttering the “Gang Related” outro under his breath. On the subway, through the halls, the rhythm is soothing.

“Get down or lay down/Hit ya with the Beretta you better stay down/Stray shots on the playground/Livin’ how I’m livin’ with the life that I’m given/Anybody that’s ridin’ with me I’m ridin’ with ‘em/Show me the enemy and I’ma hit ‘em/The second I bit ‘em I get ‘em/And hit ‘em with the venom/Ain’t no need to pretend I’ma never do it/I knew it already been through it/I do it for the street for the fam for the life anybody that’s -”

He’s here.

They’re all here. The students. Sitting in five neat rows of plastic chairs. And in the front, a chair is pulled away to make room for a black wheelchair with a red seat cushion.

Janelle Robinson, seventeen years old. Rap battle Avatar. And now, first period chorus student.

Huh.

She’s staring right back with wide eyes. He gives her a look that he hopes reads as  _ We’ll talk after class _ . She nods, her brow furrowed.

Remembering exactly where he is and why he’s here suddenly, he clears his throat, flushing.

“Good morning, y’all. I’m happy to be here, I’m gonna be your chorus teacher from now on. My name’s Bobby Tarantino, but you can just call me Mr. T if that’s easier -”

“No way...could it be?” He hears a - no pun intended - chorus of whispers.

“And yes, I am aware that it is also a nickname of Sir Robert Bryson Hall the second, also known as Logic. As a matter of fact, I’m a fan myself.” He laughs. Why is he nervous? They’re only kids. What could they possibly do to him? “Unfortunately, the shared name is just a lucky coincidence.”

The class seems disappointed, but hell, it is only 7:30.

He quickly takes attendance, and then starts warm-ups. His fingers feel at home on the piano keys, and he shivers in delight at the thick harmony - everybody has a voice here, soprano, alto, tenor, bass. If only for one select hour each day, everybody in the room is equal, equitable. He’ll be sure of it.

They begin rehearsal then, a beautiful song called “Lullaby”, and Bobby feels like he’s floating as he walks around to observe, transfixed.

_ I swear this music in my genes like denim. _

Even in the haze of overlaps and undertones, he notices little things about the students he passes. One girl with buzzed hair, dark glasses, a flannel, and a red-tipped cane, also in the front row. A tall, plump boy with dark dreadlocks, dark blushing cheeks as Bobby passes, and a rainbow tattoo behind his left ear. A student of indeterminate gender in a red hijab, and their friend with a Star of David around her neck. And all this only in the first period. Over the course of the day he’d have hundreds of students compiled of different races, colors, abilities, religions, genders, orientations, shapes and sizes. Hundreds of stories. Hundreds of people who would learn from him, and who he might even learn from.

The bell rings, and he’s sorry to see them all go. And then he remembers his promise to Janelle, and he smiles.

She smiles, too, when she sees him. “Mr. ‘Not Logic’ Tarantino.”

“Miss ‘Not Monáe’ Janelle. What a nice surprise.”

“Surprise, indeed. Pardon my French, but given we met in a rap battle - why the fuck didn’t you tell me you was finna teach here?”

“What happened to ‘sir’, missy?”

“Aight,  _ sir, _ why the fuck didn’t you tell me you was finna teach here?” She crosses her arms, grin widening.

“I didn’t know you was going here, but I mean, we here now. I’m glad to see you again.”

“Every single day?”

“I’ll count on it. You seem like a good kid.”

“Then you’ll write me a pass so I don’t get a referral?”

“Of course. And hey, Janelle, if you got accommodations, let me know. Had ‘em myself. Pretty handy.”

Her eyes widen.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, but you’ll learn in time.”

*

He finds second, third, and fourth period just as pleasantly surprising as the first, if a little louder and more overwhelming. He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed when he unlocks the door to the teachers’ lounge and finds a round-faced man with light brown skin and a faded physical education tee shirt already digging into his lunch.

Cautiously optimistic, Bobby approaches, pulling out a chair and wincing as it squeaks against the tile floor.

The man looks up with a wide grin, putting his sandwich down, and says rather loudly, “Hey, new kid. What’s up?”

Bobby smiles tentatively, sure he’s at least three years older than this guy.

“Grabbing lunch, same as you, my man.” He clears his throat, oddly shy. Normally he’s the talker. It’s strange. “Bobby Tarantino. Chorus.”

The man laughs. “Lucky coincidence? I got Jazz third period - he tells me all about you.”

Bobby smiles, remembering the boy with the rainbow tattoo behind his ear. “Teacher crush, eh?”

“I figured. I’m Gavin Dashton, Phys Ed, but folks call me Dashie.”

“‘Cause you run?”

“Run my mouth, more like.” He takes a bite of ham, pointing finger guns. Bobby can’t help but laugh.

Maybe he’s not alone here.

*

The rest of the day passes in a blur. On the subway home he thinks about Janelle, about Jazz, about Dashie, about Dafna, about Josefina, and about Shama and Sunil, brother and sister in seventh period. (Those last two names sound oddly familiar. He’ll have to ask Leon.)

All in all, not the worst first day of school in his life, but all the same he’s glued to his lovers like he hadn’t seen them in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from OCB by Joey Bada$$.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfPhfSyVqys
> 
> Dafna: Hebrew name meaning "laurel", a shoutout to one of my middle school friends.


	3. I've Been Taking My Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Logic's backstory (with some changes to fit the story) if you're familiar with it.
> 
> If not, warning for allusions to drug, alcohol & tobacco use and addiction, racism, ableism, homophobia & transphobia, abuse, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, homelessness, and gang-related murder & violence.
> 
> TL;DR please read this one with caution. It'll get lighter soon.

Bobby was diagnosed with autism at seven, ADHD at eight, generalized anxiety at fifteen, PTSD at nineteen, and OCD at twenty-one. To say the least, it explained a lot about his mother: why he felt the way he did after she mistreated him, after the broken home and bones and glasses and sisters dead brother failed classes, failed _life,_ and some part of why she mistreated him in the first place.

School passes, much like Bobby remembers it before he dropped out. Same classrooms, same hallways, hell, even a few same teachers, gray and feeble now, that he re-introduces himself to. Same bullying as well - teacher on student, mostly, but also student on student. Only now it’s someone else he has to protect, a child with real potential, not himself he can let rot away with the smoke he exhaled.

If there’s anyone who knows that pain, anyone who should be numb to it by now, it’s him, and yet. And yet.

When he sees their broken expressions, notes on his desk and comes home to grade annotated sheet music stained with tears and shaky handwriting, he feels sick. Thank God for Leon and Elliot. Thank God they’re holding him in bed right now, subtly restraining him, because oh God he doesn’t think he could keep from hurting himself otherwise. This morning he woke at four with rushing obsessions _what happens to these kids at home who hurts them am I making it worse am I doing enough what if they come in today wanting to die and I’m not there and they don’t come back the next day_ and he cried until he got sick and Leon insisted he stay home, I don’t give a fuck if you’re only a few months in, you can’t teach if you’re having an episode.

Eventually, reluctantly, he conceded and now he’s letting Elliot heat up soup while Leon picks out clean clothes for him to put on after a shower - jeans and one of his old Adidas hoodies. Sometimes it’s nice to let yourself be taken care of, and fuck people who pop Xanax for fun - they’ll never know the relief it brings him. It’s like a compulsion without the...compulsiveness.

_I’ve been feeling under pressure._

Janelle, who’s staying with a friend because her parents kicked her to the curb when she renamed herself. Jazz, who was assaulted for being the type that Grindr hates - _no fats, no femmes, no blacks._ Josefina, who gets mocked on a daily basis by people who assume because she can’t see, she can’t feel. Dafna and Azmi, and Shama and Sunil - they do and get everything together, including death threats. Zach, the autistic boy and fellow Montgomery County native with spoken Chinese and unspeakable trauma.

All of them hurting so badly they’ve come to _him,_ and here he is having a motherfucking breakdown. He chuckles wearily to himself, and gets up as the microwave beeps. At least there’s chicken pot pie soup.

_Who can relate?_

Hold on.

That’s it.

*

In January, Bobby spent MLK Day detailing the history most kids aren’t taught in school - King’s stance concerning the white moderate, and Bayard Rustin, his right hand man who loved other men. In February, he had students learn by rote songs adapted from Black poetry, and watched with a smile as Janelle rolled shyly across the room to hand Josefina a valentine printed in braille. And on March 1, three days after his episode, he feels better enough to get back on his feet and break the silence. Wearing a black button-down with an orange ribbon at the breast pocket, he plants his feet firmly as though about to spit truth in one breath. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s just trying to be sure he doesn’t fall on shaky legs.

Clearing his throat, he begins exactly one minute after the tardy bell.

“I know y’all have come to me about your lives, so it’s only fair, on Self Injury Awareness Day, that I tell you a story about someone I know who went through it.” _Deep breath._

“About 1987, Shady Grove Hospital in Rockville, Maryland, 7:36 in the morning, a biracial baby was born to a Black father and a white mother. Father that wasn't there, addicted to crack cocaine, alcohol, and various other drugs...same as his mom. So I'm gonna tell you about that, I'm gonna tell you about how all this young boy ever wanted was happiness, all he ever wanted was positivity, all he ever wanted to do was help, and care, and this boy went through hell.

“You gotta understand, his mother was racist, which is wild! Because how in the fuck is you gonna have all these Black babies with Black men, but you racist? Like bitch, that don't make no sense...but it is what it is...

“You know, he grew up, her callin’ him the n word, the kids at school callin’ him a cracker. Identifying as Black, looking as white. Being told what you can or can't be. This kid went through everything...he went through...he saw narcotics in the household, he saw violence, murderers, drug dealers, he was kidnapped, there was wild shit that happened to this kid. He made a friend in first grade, a tall Black boy who people didn’t think was a boy, and this friend called him his baby boy and they slowly fell in love over the years and God damn, this friend’s mother was more his mama than his own…he got autism and ADHD and she loved him just that way even while he had meltdowns and obsessed over his Rubik’s cube.

 _Take it back._ By now he’s pacing, hands wringing.

“And he persevered while the whole world said...what they said? They said ‘you wouldn't be shit! You ain't gon’ be nothing!’ And I, and he, he said fuck that, I'ma persevere. And that's why the message is always peace, love and positivity. And see, he always saw things from two sides…being Black, being white, liking both men and women...he always knew the message: everybody was born equal regardless of race, religion, color, creed, and sexual orientation.

“He knew that because he saw that, because he was stripped and torn down by his Black brothers and sisters that were uneducated and that did not know, and he was stripped and he was torn down by his white side that did not know. These people that are ignorant, that cannot see the bigger picture, that must fight, and kill, and murder each other. But once again, all he ever wanted to do was spread a message of equality, for every man, woman, and child, and everybody who doesn’t fit one or none of those categories, regardless of race, religion, color, creed, and sexual orientation.

“Now imagine this child growing up and seeing the wildest shit, being a part of the wildest shit, running around with the wrong people, running around with guns and knives and fighting and stealing and all this, because he didn't know, he didn't know! And then going to his mom’s apartment and cutting up his arms with the pocket knives and thinking, just thinking about who would be better off if he shot himself, if he choked on the nicotine he was inhaling. And he’d go _home_ then to his best friend, he’d sneak out to his love, who was also in poverty and suffering and they’d hold each other until the urge passed.

“But he knew deep down in his heart that it wasn't right and he knew that he needed to get away from it. Now I want you to also imagine, that at seventeen years old, this child, okay, leaves home and gets two jobs to support himself, two jobs that he works in the morning and the evenings, and then he would be couch-hopping, or else sleeping in restaurants and on benches, about eight or nine hours of sleep, but spend four, five, six hours of that with his li’l old iPod on shuffle, looking in the mirror. And pretending to see people looking at him with gratitude and saying, ‘you helped’. Not even ‘you saved my life’, just ‘you helped. You made an impact.’

(The students’ faces are blurry. He thinks he sees tears running down Janelle’s face.)

“Hoping that it would happen, but the world said no, ya white boy, ya Black mothafucka!” He pauses, irritably swiping a tear. “And he said fuck that. He said peace, love, and positivity. He said equality for all people regardless of race, religion, color, creed, and sexual orientation. He got diagnosed with anxiety and OCD and PTSD, and after three years on the streets with a tobacco addiction, he finally got real, permanent shelter, he got professional help, he got people who love him at home.

“Now I also want you to imagine people telling him that he did not live this life. ‘You just a white boy, you ain't never experienced that shit, you from Gaithersburg, Maryland. Nothing happens there. Oh no, we weren't there, we didn't live with you, in your Section 8 household. We didn't live with the narcotics and violence in your household. We just saw it from the outside. And since you white, you gotta have money, right?’ And this young man persevered in spite of what people told him he was, wasn't, and would never be, and that man is here today, proud. A lover of all human beings regardless of race, religion, color, creed, and sexual orientation.”

Bobby coughs, resists the urge to fall to his knees. “I know so many of you are out here suffering more than anybody should have to bear. I see your faces, I see your notes. And I want every single one of you to know this: I _love_ you like my own children. I care, even if you think no one does. And I know there will be things that we inherently don’t get about each other, but I will listen, and I will try my hardest to help.”

Here, he looks directly at Janelle, Jazz, Josefina, Dafna, Azmi (and later Zach, Shama, Sunil), and one by one they’re all crying openly and no one judges them. “Any of you that need immediate help or are in immediate danger, _please_ stay in my classroom for a while. I’ll write you a pass. We can sort shit out together.”

Jazz’s low voice pipes up from the back row. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all know this one. Chapter title from 1-800-273-8255 by Logic.  
> 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kb24RrHIbFk
> 
> Bobby's speech was adapted from Take It Back by Logic.  
> 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wH4kzAb4l0E


	4. The Last One to Pull My Card Was Easily Dealt With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-explicit references to sex and drug use, as well as transmisogynistic, racist, homophobic, and ableist behaviors made by a school staff member.

Given that Bobby’s little nest of kids he’s taken under his wing is now getting some of the help they need - Janelle has clean clothes and provisions from the food pantry, and all of them are receiving therapy - he’s a lot more at ease and eager to try something new. “Come with me to work tomorrow, Leon.”

“You deadass?”

Bobby smiles. “Mhm. Quarter’s nearly over, figured you might wanna help me teach syncopation -”

“You mean rap?” Leon’s bouncing on his toes, the same smile he first fell in love with.

“Exactly. I have everything all worked out; I was waiting for the moment to surprise you.” Bobby melts as Leon snakes his arms around his waist and flops onto the couch behind him, pulling him into his lap for a kiss (and, eyes closed, doesn’t see Leon smiling privately to himself).

“Take ya time, baby boy, no rush,” Leon whispers, thighs warm and lips brushing. It’s slow, and warm, and deepens slowly, the kissing, until they feel their bodies are melding. “But Elliot’s sleeping already so if we gonna do this right now we gotta -  _ oh _ …” He moans softly as Bobby tangles his fingers in his dreads and tugs gently. 

And then he tries to shush him but they’re both giggling. “Keep it down. Don’t wanna wake him up.”

“You did that on purpose, bruh!”

“So I did,” Bobby teases, tugging tentatively at Leon’s shirt and, at his nod, pressing him back into the cushions, straddling him. He takes his glasses off and Leon looks angelic, only his outline slightly blurred golden in the low light. “I like hearing your voice.” And as a wry afterthought, “Elli does too. If he hears he won’t be mad, he’ll be... _ pleased. _ ”

Leon laughs. “Glad to hear it.” He pulls his waistband down past his knees and his binder up over his head, smiling gently as Bobby slicks his hands and slides one soft up his thigh. “Ready when you are.”

*

Oxytocin, combined with a warm shower and a third partner to curl up in bed with after gentle sex, is a hell of a drug, and Leon feels stoned off his ass on it. The phantom feeling of Bobby in him, the physical feeling of their limbs intertwined and Elliot asleep on his other side, the almost tangible warmth down to his bones. The complete feeling of peace is better than seven blunts in a row, and he falls asleep with his hand in Bobby's and his “dress-up” draped over the top of the bathroom counter waiting eagerly for the day to come.

Bobby wakes Leon silently at five, pecks him on the lips with an eager smile, and scribbles a note to leave for Elliot on the nightstand. _ Took Leon to work with me today, come in at lunch if you want. I love you.  _ They go through the usual morning routine, except at a quicker pace, and except Leon’s not shuffling around in a worn tracksuit just out of bed - he’s gone all out, and Bobby’s mouth has gone dry. Crisp white button-down with cuffed sleeves, bright red tie pulled to his collarbone, shiny black dress shoes, and slacks with thin, vertical black and white stripes. He looks taller; he looks beautiful. Bobby kisses the smile from his lips, grabbing his bag and his lover’s hand, and begins the walk to the subway. The first period students are visibly excited, but not the least bit surprised, when Mr. Tarantino walks in, beaming, holding the hand of a tall man with neat clothing and long dreads in a neat ponytail.

“Good morning, y’all,” Bobby says. “This is the guest I was telling you would help teach syncopation - one of my boyfriends, Leon. Say ‘hi, Leon’.”

“Hi, Leon,” the class echoes, smiling brightly, in a imitation of elementary school greeting.

Leon pulls a blushing Bobby in for a chaste kiss, giggling. “Shall we, baby?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“Aight.” Leon steps forward, clapping his hands once with an air of finality. “So y’all know what syncopation is already, but to recap, it’s the displacement of rhythm by making the weak beats strong, spice it up a little. For example: I des _troy_ _ave_ rage rappers -”

Janelle and Jazz cheer, and Leon grins. “Aye, y’all know Mr. Bada$$!”

“Yes, sir,” says Janelle, grinning.

“You - I know you, girl! Wasn’t you the one on stage with Bobby?”

“Indeed.”

“Damn, you got skills.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve heard some about the rest of y’all, too. Good kids - let’s keep going. Y’all wanna spit some, say something, it’s an open floor.”

Interested murmurs.

“Could one of y’all do us a favor and find a beat -”

“I got it,” Dafna offers, jumping eagerly to the back corner of the room with the computer, dark curls bouncing behind her.

“‘Atta girl,” Bobby says, beaming. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.” The beat is familiar, and Bobby feels like he’s glowing.  _ Time to hit ‘em with a classic. _

Leon’s way ahead of him.

“Tell me is you ready is you really ready?/They ain’t really ready they ain’t never ready/I was born ready now I’m coming heavy/Now I’m coming heavy/I hope you re -”

“Me and my team gotta intervene/What’s the point of living if you ain’t living a dream?/We live in a world where everybody want everything/Everybody want a better thing/Tryna fool ya like it’s picture perfect but it’s just the editing/Man the game been  _ waiting _ for a better king -”

(Bobby hears a few whispers throughout the room that sound distinctly like “ooh, shit”. He smiles as Leon takes over again, bobbing his head.)

“And I never lost my hunger man I stayed hungry/If we started talking numbers man they wouldn't love me/Man I'd rather keep the peace but now it's getting ugly/But fuck it what I'm ‘bout to say is why they didn't want me/60k first week for the Bada$$/200k to this day I know my brothas mad/With the 80/20 split my brotha do the math/My homie Kirk just outsold Troy Ave/Now they sleep we 'bout to hit 'em with the -”

Azmi stands up, and Bobby realizes they’re singing faintly.

Josefina provides a rich alto harmony, swaying.

And then Janelle rings through clearly with the hook. “East side, west side, we ride, we die, all for this/Oh my my I know why I can’t fall for this/All my life I tried I cried got pride in this/All my life I’d hide I’d stay inside for this -”

Jazz jumps to his feet, making his way to the front row so he can look Janelle, so like a sister, in the eyes as they trade rhymes. “Tell me what you know about forty day forty nights, no lights, all for this -”

“Tell me what you know about sleepin’ outside no ride in the wintertime all for this -”

“Tell me what you know about commas in the bank lookin’ in the mirror yeah I did all of this -”

“Tell me what you know about family never there but swear they deserve all of this -”

“Tell me what you know ‘bout people tryna  _ test _ you -”

“Don’t wanna get involved with this -”

“Ex you out and get solved with this/Everybody wanna get involved with this -”

“Like bitch I bet I be at the place I said I’d be/Legendary like No ID/You know I be/Duckin’ every ho I see/’Cause I’m out of this  _ world _ and you know I be like…”

Leon watches in awe as an impromptu rap battle breaks out among this room full of beautiful brown kids, and smiles to himself as Bobby takes over the second verse to unanimous cheering.

“Livin’ as a Black man in the skin of a white man/Everybody wanna fight, man/And I put it on my right hand, goddamn/It’s all for this…

“I just wanna make the world a better place/Fuck race and the shade of my face/Looking for the sun but the shade on my face/Best in my field, I’m a slave to the race…

(Janelle joins in now, leaning in to look Bobby in the eyes determinedly like she did the day they met, and he feels a surge of affection.)

“Black motherfucker, white motherfucker/I don’t give a  _ damn _ what you is; can you write motherfucker?/Said I couldn’t do it said I wouldn’t do it I just made a million in a month, aight motherfucker?”

(A chorus of good-natured laughs.)

“I did everything you said I wouldn’t do and to you I still ain’t shit? Aight motherfucker/Run around the world yellin’ PLP but as a last resort we gon’  _ fight _ motherfucker like -”

Bobby and Janelle are drowned out by the cheers of the rest of the class, including Leon, which are then silenced by the doorway opening, and darkening.

The man casting the shadow is tall, thin, and pale, with a blonde bowl cut and cold blue-gray eyes, like gunmetal. Leon tenses, stepping protectively in front of Bobby and the children, and scowls. Fortunately, he holds an impressive few inches over the unwelcome stranger.

Bobby’s tense, too, his lips in a hard line, but his expression is remarkably calm.

“Mr. Park,” Bobby addresses him coolly. “How can I help you?”

“You’re making an awful lot of noise, Tarantino.” He looks over him, Jazz, Leon, nods to himself, eyes lingering on Janelle. Bobby watches her shrivel under his cold gaze on her thin legs, her wheels, her long cornrows. “I’m not surprised, but I advise you keep it down a notch. There are...more important things than music, you know.”

Bobby’s eyes harden. Sensing tension, Josefina rises gracefully to her feet and turns her face to the direction of Park’s voice. “Sir, I suggest you not talk down to my teacher and my girlfriend that way.”

“And you, Sanchez - I suggest you remember your place. You cannot see. You don’t know how your  _ girlfriend _ looks at you. Everyone is embarrassed by your neediness. And as for  _ him _ -” Park points at Janelle - “He cannot shave his legs or wear heels, let alone surgery. You call  _ that _ a woman?”

Tears prick Janelle’s eyes. Jazz, Azmi, and Dafna rise to their feet in unison and Leon takes a step forward, lip curling, but Bobby holds an arm out to stop them, inhaling deeply. “It’s okay, guys. I got this.”

His eyes are not cold like Park’s, but they’re not warm now like they usually are either, an electrifying warmth like smoke from his joint. Now, they’re burning bright blue-hot like a star - the most dangerous color. He half-smiles, chuckles, but there’s no humor in it.

“Now you listen to me for a second, Park. If you think I took this job for the pay, you dead wrong; we both know the pay as teachers in America is absolute shit. If you think I took this job to be away from my partners, both of whom I love very much, you dead wrong. I took it to do some good in the world after all the bad I’ve seen. I do it to spread knowledge, peace, love, and positivity, and my friend, I absolutely do not fuck with you spreading ignorance, fear, hatred, negativity, and in general entitled bullshit -  _ especially _ among  _ my _ kids.” They’re standing almost toe to toe. “So I suggest you kindly step off, or, shit -” he laughs coldly - “we gon’  _ fight, _ motherfucker.”

“Is that a threat, Tarantino?”

“What you think, bruh?” He grins, flipping him a long middle finger. “It won’t matter once you get fired for harassment.”

Park opens and closes his mouth silently, not unlike a goldfish, before turning and leaving without another word.

Bobby watches Janelle brush tears away. He approaches her carefully, kneels and waits for a consenting look before bracing his hands on the sides of her wheelchair affectionately. “You alright?”

“I am now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from No. 99 by Joey Bada$$.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LMnXxNdclg
> 
> To get an idea of what the rap battle sounds like, I made a computer-generated mashup of Ready by Joey Bada$$ and Run It by Logic.
> 
> https://rave.dj/gVD8-Aalf_S3Jw
> 
> Slave by Logic was also used.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CM-itZ9QCQg


	5. Fuck Everybody Hating on Me Right Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of vomiting.

Time passes much quicker than Bobby remembers it did as a dropout-to-be thirteen years ago, as does the news spread that Park, whatever job he used to work here, doesn’t anymore. The praise, from students and otherwise, he receives for standing up to that dick is overwhelming. 

There’s a girl with dark skin and twin dark braids who introduces herself as one of Jazz’s friends with a firm handshake and shining sloe-black eyes. “Heather Geni, my pleasure to meet you. Pardon my language, but Park was an asshole. I’m glad someone stood up to him.”

Bobby laughs, pleasantly surprised. “So I’ve heard. What did he teach?”

Heather rolls her eyes. “AP American history, and a bullshit colonialist version at that. Hopefully the new teacher will be better.”

“I hope so too, Miss Geni. Any friend of Jazz’s is a friend of mine.”

And so it’s no surprise when he meets several other acquaintances of his own students: Claire Geni, Heather’s twin sister; Camden Perez, a short Filipino young man with a prosthetic leg and a basketball scholarship; Sami Alouh, an exuberant Egyptian and Black drama kid. All of them full of stories and promise.

Spring break comes and goes. Bobby gives his little nest his number in case of emergencies, but (thank God) no one calls. Then he worries they might’ve died, as usual, and as usual, when he comes back, they’re all alive and nearly ready for the spring concert.

Leon’s been sick, nausea and such, but hey, it happens around this time of year, and usually goes away after a week or two (right?). He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

…

Fuck it. He’s not fine. There’s a lot going on.

But it will be fine. It has to be.

*

Go fucking figure.

He’d dropped the news Sunday morning. He was throwing up. Elliot laid a hand on his sweaty back and asked gently if he was coming down with something.

In response, Leon said nothing. He just held up a middle finger with one hand and a positive test with the other. The first one was okay - considering this, he has every right to be moody.

But the second one, oh God.

How should Bobby feel? Over the moon, probably. He should, and he does, kind of. Mostly, he’s terrified.  _ Should we have gotten married first how would that work did I get tested for HIV recently enough what if I fuck up this kid what if the pregnancy causes Leon trauma what if what if what if - _

_ What if. _

After a long, hot shower, Leon looks much more himself, and calls both of his lovers to the couch for a long talk.

“I’ma answer y’all’s questions before you ask ‘em. I’m a couple weeks in, no, I don’t know whose the baby is, and  _ yes, _ I want this. I been thinkin’ it through ever since I was just with my Bobby.”

No more questions asked. Leon seems to sense their anxiety, so really, it’s more one-sided than a conversation.  _ We’re going to be wonderful fathers. _

They spend the majority of the day curled on the couch, snacking and watching TV, Bobby twisting Leon’s dreads around a long finger and Elliot kissing his stomach.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

Bobby laughs. “I mean tall babe. Leon.”

“‘Sup, baby boy?” Leon smiles lazily.

“Uh...what would you say to a second kid?”

“I’m not having twins, if that’s what you asking.”

“No. I mean...adoption.”

*

Black. The color of the auditorium house, the risers, the crisp choral uniforms of the students standing on those risers (with Janelle and Josefina sitting hand-in-hand in front), and many faces of the students themselves.

Brown. The color of the gleaming wooden stage, and many faces on it.

White. A few remaining faces, and the spotlight shining upon every one of those proud faces. Leon’s suit jacket in the front row of the audience, and the rose Elliot holds sitting next to him, fingers intertwined.

Black and white. Bobby’s suit, the cool piano keys under his fingertips, and Bobby himself.

And the rainbow fades in when he closes his eyes and starts to play.

Bobby doesn’t gloat, but he does pride himself on those special connections to music being autistic allows him. Perfect pitch of course comes at an advantage when you teach it.

Sound-color synesthesia is an en-fucking-tirely different deal.

It’s in E major, but more importantly, it’s blue. Deep indigo, almost velvety black, like the midnights running somewhere safe, far away, he used to visualize during panic attacks.

_ “Lullaby, sing lullaby,/The day is far behind you./The moon sits high atop the sky,/Now let sweet slumber find you./Away...” _

He sighs contently as the thick harmonies wash over him, the colors fade slowly into soft golden tones melting into orange, sweet as Leon’s bimuelos, honey like the voices of his children. _ His _ children.

_ “The day is done, and gone the sun/That lit the world so brightly./The earth’s aglow with speckled show/Of twinkling stars so sprightly. Away, away…” _

Orange melting into pale blue, like the earth reversing itself for one minute to let its kingdom enjoy the day a little longer.

_ “Where the sunlight is beaming/Through a deep, cloudless blue,/And the treetops are gleaming/With a fresh morning dew;/Where the mountains are shining/At the meadows below,/In a brilliant white lining/Of a new-fallen snow.” _

_ Meno mosso. _

_ Breathe. _

_ “Close your eyes, breathe in the night;/A softer bed I’ll make you./The trial is done, all danger gone;/Now let far dreaming take you. Away…” _

Bobby wonders what it might have been like to have a mother who would tuck him into bed and sing him to sleep. Shakes the thought. He had one. Has one. Just not by birth. And he thinks of her now as his own children sing, smiling softly. Deep, lush green, velvety midnights, warm turquoise seawater breaking and pulling back, always persisting. like how she described St. Lucia.

_ “Where the ocean is lapping at a soft, pearly shore,/And the swaying palms napping as their swinging fronds soar./Now the dark night approaches,/Yet so soft and so mild./Lullaby, sing lullaby;/Sleep now, my child.” _

He smiles at all the birds in his little nest one by one, spreading their wings.

They smile back.

And as the audience applauds, he doesn’t stand up to acknowledge it. He keeps playing.

It’s barely noticeable at first, the change, just a reprise of the original melody. Then he moves into F, F sharp, finally G major, his fingers dancing.

Eyes wide open.

“Oh, my mind/Oh, how the times have changed/And I know why/Things will never be the same...again.”

He smiles at Janelle, who squeezes Josefina’s hand.  _ Almost time. _

“Things will never be the same…”

He can’t resists flapping a hand briefly as the chorus breaks out into a harmony he arranged, beaming. “But oh, it’s ‘cause the world has changed...the world has changed…”

“Even in your darkest of times…”

Janelle, Josefina, Jazz, Zach, Azmi, Shama, Sunil, Dafna.

For them.

“Just remember, everybody falls apart sometimes...sometimes…”

He lets them all build on each other as he stands up and stops playing.

And then there’s a standing ovation he hardly registers.

A furiously blushing Jazz brings him a bouquet of flowers supposedly from the rest of the performing arts department.

And Janelle, openly sobbing in the front row.  _ Thank you. _

He motions to her.  _ Come here, girl. _

He grabs the upstage mic, removes a folded packet from his breast pocket, and kneels before her. “Janelle Myah Robinson, we met in a rap battle in a karaoke bar in Manhattan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the time I’ve known you, you’ve taught me more than a curriculum can ever teach.”

“I taught you how to sing, and how to embody peace, love, and positivity. But you’ve already mastered those qualities, and I want to see them every day, not just five days a week, hear?”

“Sir -”

“My partners and I would like to adopt you, Janelle.”

All in all, the best night of his life thus far, and now he has like one-hundred something children to show for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Black SpiderMan by Logic.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxjC4CNG3_c
> 
> Work title from Paradise by Logic.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SfAKuZSzUU
> 
> Songs used in the concert scene were Lullaby by Daniel Elder, and Logic's unreleased song Things Will Never be the Same (links in order as such).
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4ej8sOShJg
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WoCYyOKhnIs
> 
> As always, bonus points if you can catch any additional references throughout the work! And of course, thank you as always to my friends, especially PJ @fruit-lesbian, Jazz @mojave-hoedown, and Lucas @carrionkid for your invaluable ideas and advice, and to everyone who reads and leaves comments and/or kudos. I love you all. PLP!


End file.
